


A Day at a Time

by nevtelenwriting



Series: Move Forward [4]
Category: Snowpiercer (2013)
Genre: Babies, Child Abduction, Child Care, Curtis's ongoing fathering struggles, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Not so unwilling parent, Toddlers, and kids - Freeform, mild blood cause kids get scraped up sometimes, moments in time, oh my, path to redemption
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-19
Updated: 2018-06-19
Packaged: 2019-05-25 15:12:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14979836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nevtelenwriting/pseuds/nevtelenwriting
Summary: Curtis has started to figure out the fatherish-thing, and Edgar learns how to use his legs. The Front has parts that are starting to wear down.





	A Day at a Time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bereweillschmidt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bereweillschmidt/gifts).



> Holy wow, it's been how long? Well, in honor of June 2018 in Snowpiercer, have June 2018 fanfic! I wrote the majority of this a long time ago, but finally pieced together the little bits recently :)
> 
> Each part of this series is a stand alone fic, but also chapters in a series. You don't have to read them all, or even read them in order to make sense. It just might be better if you do.

_June 2018, 4 Years Since Train Departure:_

Curtis practically trips over himself when he hears the loud wail. He knows who it is without seeing, the cracking pitch in the high voice etched into his muscle memory.

He doesn't miss a beat as he jumps over a railing hanging clothes, doesn't hear Tanya telling him to take a chill pill and skids to the side of the train car that the kids were playing in.

Edgar's on the ground, rubbing his eyes with dirty hands to stifle the tears flowing from his eyes. Two young boys, four years Edgar's senior but the only ones close to his age, are next to him, trying to get Edgar to stop crying. As soon as Curtis is in view the boys jump away, eyes wide and faces pale at the apparent catastrophe in front of them. Curtis drops down to his knees beside Edgar, looking over his body for damage and finds two skinned knees. Edgar hiccups and hides his face, trying not to cry and Curtis was going to have a word with whoever told him to do this.

“Hey hey hey, what happened?” He asks, the question low and soothing directed at Edgar, who is still trying to control his tears. Curtis wraps gentle fingers over tiny wrists, smoothing his thumbs over the bones to calm him down. When Edgar doesn't answer promptly the boys rush in.

One, Dane, babbles some excuse, _“It’s not our fault I swear we didn't do nothing!”_ while the other, Angel, has launched into an epic telling of Edgar's exploits, _“He was racing across the top bars, Curtis, you shoulda seen him, he’s not as fast at us yet but no one’s faster than—”_ and then he trails off, says ‘ _never mind_ ’ and proceeds to clam up like a bear trap. Curtis gives him a side glance before looking back to Edgar.

Edgar sniffles and peers up through red eyes, and all he mumbles is, “I fell.”

Curtis fills in the details easily enough. He smiles at Edgar, and lets go of his wrists to squeeze his shoulders. Edgar steels his breath and looks up, shoulders up and ready to be reamed out.

Curtis mocks sighs and drops his head, shaking it once before looking back up. “You were climbing the top bars?”

Edgar chews his lip, and nods.

“You know that's dangerous.”

Edgar shrugs, “Angel n' Dane do it all the time.”

Curtis gives him a level look. “Angel and Dane need to know it's dangerous, too.”

In need of defending their actions, Angel starts babbling again, “But you should have seen how fast we was goin'! Edgar's still got some short arms he's gotta grow out but he’ll be okay—”

Dane nods quickly and adds, “Yeah, 's fine, Edgar was keepin' up but the bars were greasy this time—”

Curtis arches his brows at them, “So it's the _bar's_ fault?”

The other boys launch into another tangent.

“We never would have let him climb it if we knew, Curtis, I swear—”

“Oh come on, it's not that bad!” Angel laments, “We wasn’t the only ones that—“

Dane punches Angel in the arm and he snaps his mouth shut.

Curtis gives them a look, and stands. He crosses his arms in mock authority he doesn't feel like he has. “And where is Grey?”

The boys blink at each other, and Angel scoffs and puts on the worst innocent face Curtis has ever seen, while Dane suddenly finds something very interesting to study on the floor. Yeah, he though as much.

“What do you mean Grey? Grey’s not here, why would you think Grey’s here?” Angel asks, and Curtis arches his brow again. Angel shrugs his shoulders, hands out, and makes a remarkably creative combination of contrition and innocence when chews his lip all while trying to grin around the bitten skin.

Curtis sighs, and calls out, “Grey, I know you’re there.”

Curtis hears a sharp clang, and then a repetitive bang of someone climbing up bars, the clamber receding with each step. Curtis fights the urge to roll his eyes.

Edgar pouts on the ground by his shins, picking at the blood already drying on his ruined knees. “Grey does it all the time.”

The boys groan in unison and immediately launch into scolding Edgar along the lines of not ratting Grey out, Grey was _barely_ four years old and they were ride or die, not rat and run. Or something along those lines, Curtis stopped listening because Grey and Edgar both had _no business_ climbing like they did at their age and Curtis going to get an ulcer at this rate.

“Okay, guys, look,” Curtis sighs, and drops down to rest on his haunches. He ushers Angel and Dane over to talk to them. On his heels they manage to look over the top of his own head by mere inches, and Curtis feels strangely old for a second. He sighs and looks at them each for a long moment, mostly to give himself time to find the right lecture.

“You guys can handle stuff like this, I trust you to be safe. But Edgar and Grey don’t know any better yet, and they’re little. They want be like you guys, and you gotta show them you know it’s dangerous. Be more careful, alright? We don't have much in the ways of cleaning up skinned knees, much less cracked heads.”

“Alright, Curtis,” both boys reply, Dane more repentant while Angel sighs dramatically. Curtis fixes him with a sterner look before Angel straightens up and replies much more seriously, and chews his lip as apologetically as he can muster.

Curtis gives himself a breath to school his patience, and then finishes, “And don’t think I’m not telling your mom and your dad.”

Dane and Angel whine as Curtis stands up. He reaches his hands out for Edgar to grab and stand up with him. Edgar lifts one hand to rub snot and tears into the sleeve of his shirt, and ends up smudging more dirt over his nose. He doesn't let go of Curtis's hand with the other.

“Come on, let's get you cleaned up.” Curtis tilts his head, and guides him back through the rows and rows of bunks to where the clothes hang, back where he was helping Tanya patch some of the pillows.

Tanya is waiting expectantly by the clothes line, a wry smile on her lips as Curtis sits Edgar down and picks up the cleanest bit of rag that was set to be mended. The moment Edgar sits down Tanya strokes a hand through Edgar's hair, much to his very vocal protest and pushing of her hand.

“Oh, hush up. You don't let me ruffle that cute noggin' and I'll have to start pinching your cheeks,” Tanya warns, and Edgar whines his lament.

Curtis mouth twitches a little as he reaches under his jacket and pulls out his water canteen. They're issued one for drinking every two days. He still has about half left, even though it's near the end of day two. He keeps a little extra, for situations like this.

“So did you save Edgar from the terrors of the metal floor?” Tanya asks, a smile still on her lips.

Curtis frowns and dips the edge of cloth into the water, just enough to dampen it so he can wipes away the caked blood. Edgar winces but keeps quiet, watches Curtis rather than look at his knees.

Tanya shakes her head with a smile. “I haven't seen a man run that fast since there were police sirens.”

“I was worried,” Curtis supplies, and when the blood is wiped away, he checks for anything that might have gotten caught in the skin.

“You went full mother _hen_ on him,” Tanya laughs. Curtis ignores her; the skin is clean, relatively, so he pats Edgar's shoulder, looking him up and down for more wear. The bleeding has stopped as well, but he's gonna be sore and bruised for a few days.

“What's a hen?” Edgar asks, looking up at Tanya with wide, curious eyes.

Tanya chuckles and ruffles his hair again, “A fretful thing that can't stop looking after its kids. Sometimes squeaks and squawks and worries herself into a mess.”

Edgar nods like he understands, face scrunched in pensive thought of what this mysterious creature could look like.

“I do not,” Curtis says, and without skipping a beat licks his thumb and wipes away a smudge of dirt still caught on Edgar's nose. He groans and writhes away from it.

“Uh-huh,” Tanya says with a curved brow, that gentle smile still on her lips and completely unconvinced. “Also far too tense.”

Edgar makes gagging noises and displeased protests until Curtis concedes, dropping his hand with a slow sigh through his nose. He braces his hands on his knees to right himself, and places them on his hips.

“Go on, get out of here.” Curtis juts his head to the side to indicate his escape path. “I’m sure Angel wants a rematch on your race.”

Edgar beams up at him. His little legs swing out to hop off the bottom bunk and scurry away, likely to re-open his injuries and solidify the migraine building between Curtis’s eyes.

Curtis rips off the bit of soiled cloth and tosses it into the trash pile. Cloth could be recycled, sometimes, but usually it was burned for some extra heat. When he turns Tanya still has an amused smile on her lips, and she starts to laugh. Curtis creases his brow.

“You're _finally_ getting the hang of it,” Tanya clarifies, poorly, and reaches out to squeeze his shoulder.

Curtis frowns, looking down at the point of contact. “Getting what?”

Tanya hums, and continues, “When that boy couldn't walk yet you could barely hold him without having a heart attack. Now you’re schooling the whole pack of boys.”

Curtis clenches his jaw and pulls away from her hold, picking through the old tattered shirts to find the best for stripping and stuffing.

“Grey and Edgar have it in their heads that they can do everything the other boys can. They forget they’re half their age.” Curtis replies like it’s nothing, because it is. They all have to learn somewhere. While Curtis could usually get through to Edgar, Grey doesn’t have anyone to fall back on. He is constantly proving himself and hiding when he fails. Christ, someone needs to _talk_ to him.

“And I’d like you to point out one other person who’s willing to tell them that without spanking them to learn it,” Tanya challenges him, her arms crossed.

But Curtis just shakes his head, “Someone has to. Anyone would.”

Angel and Dane are kids, too, so someone has to let them know not every hare-brained idea is a good one. No one else was around at the time, Curtis happened to be there because of Edgar. He isn’t schooling anyone.

Tanya’s mouth curls towards a frown now, brow drawing together like Curtis said something confusing. “No…they wouldn’t. You take it on yourself to do those kids right.”

Maybe he does, but it’s nothing, or at least it isn’t much in comparison.

“You know why,” Curtis mumbles, tugging down one of the shirts. He hands it to another woman handling the sewing, who is currently doing more than her fair share while he and Tanya prattle. Curtis rubs his hand over his face to ease away the growing headache. This is his job. He needs to make it right with Edgar, with all them. Even if it was just a day at a time.

“Yes...I do.” Tanya continues carefully, “You know, you keep killing yourself over this, you won't ever live again.”

“This is living?” Curtis bites out, bitter enough that Tanya closes her mouth. She purses her lips, studying him intently enough to burn holes in the side of his head. His shoulders slump a little, but he doesn’t apologize for the snap or reply.

“Boy, remind me never to compliment you again,” Tanya sighs, and gets back to work. Curtis continues in silence beside her.

Clamoring spreads like a wave to the back, the adults murmuring about the banging, groaning creaks from their metal cage door. Each of them look up at the unexpected sound.

The door opens twice a day, every day. This is the first time has ever broken schedule. They are far enough back that the makeshift drapes and the rows of bunks hides their view, relying on the curious chatter overwhelmed by the banging.

As soon as it thunders open a megaphone echoes a single order: _“Line up, children in front!”_

Children in front. They’ve never asked that before.

Curtis grew up on the streets on Earth more than he cared to admit, but it makes him trust his instinct, always has, and right now the hairs on the back of his neck are raising.

Curtis hasn’t moved while the others grumble and trudge to the front. Tanya barely calls out, “Where are you going, they said line up!” before Curtis dashes to the back of the bunks instead, starts telling the parents what they want, to hide their kids and get them underneath the dirty clothing, hide them in their trash if they can or get them up into the metal grates. He doesn’t know why, but everything in him is telling him not to listen and he hopes the others will, too.

He finds Edgar halfway down the ladder when he hears guards moving through the bunks, yelling for everyone to line up, bring their brats.

He has the decency to look a little ashamed he was back at climbing but Curtis could care less right now.

“Edgar, I want you to get back up to the rafters, and don't make a sound, okay? When I say it's all clear, you can come back, but _don't_ come out otherwise.”

Edgar’s face scrunches up with confusion, looks warily up at the rafters this time. “Why? They're just head countin', and I'm hungry—”

“Not this time, okay?” Curtis snaps, and then sucks in a breath, calming the edge in his voice. He squeezes Edgar's bony arms, “I'll give you my block, I promise.”

Edgar frowns, but nods, scrambling up the ladder to return to the rafters above. Curtis barely has the time to breathe a sigh before two guards grab him by his arms, hauling him back towards the group and snapping at him to line up or they'll bust his legs.

When Curtis is shoved into the crowd Angel and Grey are both lined up and a Front-end woman dressed in yellow turns their heads one way and the other. Another, much younger child—Sophie, Curtis remembers—stands still and tall at the age of three, her eyes on her mother but valiantly alone. The woman measures her, and lifts her curly hair, checking her scalp for fuck knows what reason. She measures the boys' height as well as the length of their arms. She checks their teeth. Every number and measurement is noted in a primly kept clipboard held in her hand. They watch her in silence, though the bristling tension grows with each quiet second that ticks by.

She frowns and looks at the mothers holding their babies, one barely a month old while the other two are heading towards two years of age. They clutch their children to their chests nearly tight enough to suffocate their cries.

“I was told there were more than this,” she asks, thumbing her nose at the infants before turning to a guard expectantly.

The guard closest to Angel answers her, “There were four others, ma'am.”

She hums, and scans the crowd. Searching for a weak link in their chain. Curtis keeps his eyes forward, doesn't dare take a chance to look up into the grates and hopes that the other children are safe.

She walks to the crowd and guards flank her. She scans their faces one by one, until she reaches Curtis. He says nothing. She turns to the guard, and tilts her head towards Curtis, but addresses the guard.

“Him.”

Curtis keeps his eyes forward. The guards march to him and Curtis grimaces but doesn’t fight when they man-handle him to the front, all but shoving him towards the woman. He stumbles a step, and then straightens himself, hands pressed still to his sides while he stairs over her head.

“He's been seen with a small boy. Where is he?”

“Not sure, ma'am.”

She looks at Curtis, and arches her brows. Curtis doesn't skip a beat, has been thinking of the simplest answer to give since he told Edgar to run.

“He died,” he says, his voice strained enough to be considered remorse.

She tilts her head, mouth twitching downward “Then where is the body?”

Curtis swallows thickly, and looks down at her. “Waste not.”

Her nose crinkles in distaste, and she writes something down on her clip board.

“Back to your old ways, I see,” she muses.

Curtis clenches his hands into fists at his sides. Focuses on his breathing and not the urge to strike. His stomach lurches at the memory of his teeth sinking into tough skin.

She looks back up at Curtis, and asks, “Any other kids then? Surely procreation didn’t _stop_ five years ago?”

“No kids,” Curtis says, and he can feel his stomach churning as he says, “Not after—”

“The incidents. Right,” she hums, disinterest painting her words at what the Front considered an “incident.” She makes a note of something on her chart. Curtis can still taste blood on his tongue.

“What about after that?” She asks, scanning a clipboard.

Curtis says nothing, can't bring himself to engage in conversation with the bitch any more.

A guard answers in his stead, “No one older than five.”

She frowns, and her brows knitting. She scribbles a few notes, and addresses Curtis expectantly. “How many younger than five?”

No one speaks. They all look at each other from the corner of their eyes. Curtis narrows his eyes on her.

She looks to a guard, and tilts her head towards Curtis. The guard slams the butt of his gun into his stomach, making him wheeze as he crumples over. He grimaces and clutches his stomach, unresisting when they drag his head back up to look at the woman.

“How many?” She asks again. Curtis doesn't answer, simply watches her with deadened eyes. No one else answers, either.

A guard pipes in, “Last head check marked three kids under 40 inches. The girl here is one of them.”

“Then where are they?” She asks, her voice clipped with impatience. The guards don't have an answer for her, either.

“Dead,” Curtis answers, “They all got sick. You wouldn’t give us medicine.”

She purses her lips, the news of their demise clearly more of an inconvenience than a trauma that needed reparation. But then she nods, and makes another note.

“No matter. We have what we needed.”

She turns to walk away, and the guards follow. The metal wall creaks shut behind them and locks with a hiss.

A full minute of silence passes. Curtis feels like his going to throw up when he finally says, “All clear.”

The mothers of Angel and Sophie rush forward, Angel’s mother whispering a litany of relief in Spanish while both women kiss over their faces and hold them tightly.

Two people come forward to help him up but Curtis shrugs them off, mutters, “I'm fine.”

They leave him be, and Curtis heads back to the end of the section, weaving through the beds and work stations. Edgar peeks down from the rafters when Curtis walks to where he had left the boy.

“Can I come down?” He asks, voice strained with impatience from waiting so long.

“Yes,” Curtis says, and clears his throat to cover the crack. He can feel his hands shaking. He's sure his heart is going to seize from how hard it's pounding.

He hears the banging of the grates as Edgar hurries down the make-shift catwalk, clambers the way the others taught him to so he wouldn’t fall. Edgar shuffles to him and looks up at Curtis, so much smaller than Curtis is with big, unbroken, unsoiled eyes expectant for an answer.

Edgar was still here. He wasn't taken. None of them were taken. Fuck, they wanted the _children_.

Curtis drops to his knees, shaking fingers pressed tightly over his mouth. Edgar tilts his head, “You okay, Curtis?”

Edgar squeaks and wriggles when Curtis wraps his arms tightly around him, enough to squeeze the air out of his lungs. Edgar is so surprised he doesn't fight it like he does when Tanya dotes on him. Because Curtis _doesn't_ do this.

“Whataya huggin' me for?” Edgar asks. That's when Curtis feels hot wetness drip down his cheeks, splattering on the worn shoulder of Edgar’s shirt.

“Are ya cryin'?” Edgar asks, disbelief evident in his pitched voice. He looks around for an explanation from the others, but most have turned away. The few that linger have their eyes on Curtis in sympathy. Edgar doesn't get it and Curtis is not going to explain.

The excuse he gave today might have worked for now, but by next headcount they will know it was a lie. By next headcount, Curtis doesn’t know what he’ll do.

Tanya steps forward, and ruffles Edgar's hair. He sticks out his lower lip, frowning up at her but Tanya only smiles, small and kind.

“Curtis,” she says gently, and claps him on the shoulder. Curtis startles out of his trance, and immediately releases Edgar. He stumbles and Curtis catches him, and Edgar watches in open confusion as Curtis wipes the back of his hand over his eyes, clearing away the wet but not the redness. He stands up and walks away.

Edgar watches him leave, and heads off to play with the other kids.

**

The next time they come, they say they're doing medical checks on the children. They come in and hunt through the beds this time. Only Grey and Edgar are hidden out of sight.

The children are ushered out. Angel doesn't return.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos and feedback are as always, greatly appreciated and loved <3


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